My Kingdom For A Pen

I attended an advance screening of The Aviator this past week at the Writer's Guild Theatre in Beverly Hills. I enjoyed the movie, and I'll get into it a little bit more later, but I had to stand in a very long line to get into the screening. Primarily because we had to be patted down and searched for any recording equipment or cameras. They sent people with camera phones back to their cars to put it away. The woman who ransacked my handbag asked me if I had a camera phone so I pulled my big ol' brick-sized circa 2000 Nokia cellular phone out of its case to show her. She laughed derisively and said, "That's definitely not a camera phone." Yeah, but I look so good talking on that phone while tooling around town in my convertible Yugo. No one seems to get the statement I'm making by not trading up every year. I'm not that committed though. The screening was Monday night, I bought a new phone on Wednesday. I'm so ashamed.

Normally I wouldn't mind waiting in a long line to watch a Martin Scorsese film penned by John Logan. But these two women standing behind me in line would not shut up. They did not come up for air. If there were an exchange of ideas or information, fantastic. I love overhearing great conversations in public. Not the case here. They recounted every minute of their week, every plodding, uninteresting minute. Every mundane, minute detail of every spiritless minute of their routine week in their pedestrian lives. Picked up dry cleaning, went grocery shopping, paid bills, argued with husband/boyfriend over remote control, watched Survivor, listened to KROQ in a desperate attempt to stay current, pushed papers all day, battled traffic on the 405, couldn't find parking space at the mall, dressed kids for school, blah, blah blah. No wonder men tune out the women in their lives. So although I still relate to The Who's sentiments in My Generation (I hope I die before I get old...), I was thinking more along the lines of, "I hope I die before I turn into a chirping little insect with nothing interesting to say but lack the self-awareness to realize it." Not as catchy, I'll admit. But that just about sums up that particular fear.

I waited in line for about 45 minutes before I made my way to the theatre entrance. In that time, I imagined a heavy metal object dropping from the sky, missing me by inches, but crushing the two chattering nincompoops behind me. I also imagined that scene in Woody Allen's Annie Hall where Allen trotted out Marshall MacLuhan. But mostly I imagined plunging a pen into my ear so I wouldn't have to hear their insipid yammerings. I even went so far as to look for a pen in my handbag. Yeah, my ears would be bleeding from a punctured eardrum, but I couldn't even hear myself think. I know I wouldn't ever really consider plunging a pen into my ear, but I just wanted it to stop. And my reaction to these women is just from standing in a line for 45 minutes. I can't even begin to imagine what their poor husbands or boyfriends have to endure. Not that I would condone the behavior of Scott Peterson, but the prosecutor would be smart to disallow me from serving on that jury.

Once in the theatre, I was able to find a great seat near the front. They were able to squeeze in about 50 more people before they packed the joint and started the flick. I really enjoyed the movie. The script was wonderful, the cast was stellar, the cinematography stimulating, direction was inspired, and the pacing was just right - what a relief. Especially after Gangs of New York. But from now on, I may have to invest in ear plugs for those long lines.